Dancing with the Demons in our Minds
by Arseneau
Summary: "Tears leaked from beneath his eyelids and he desperately tried to hang on to the edges of his fraying consciousness. He knew the voices were shouting his name." Part of the 'Eurovision' series of one-shots (cause we all need more Musketeers in our lives) :)
1. Hear Them Calling

Part of the Eurovision series, but from 2016 instead of 2017, so that's why it's separate. I'm trying to write more in this series for 2017. I'm sorry that the fanfics haven't been flowing thick and fast over the last two weeks, I've been having some health issues, but I should be able to write more now that I'm more or less okay. I hope you guys find this one interesting, it's inspired by the Icelandic entry from last year, Hear Them Calling. Enjoy!

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The day had swept in cold and murky. Mist reigned over the battlefield and kissed along the length of Aramis' sword. It's owner crept along the bank above the Spanish encampment. He paused, drinking in the silence that welcomed him. It had been blissfully wet over the last few days, but it meant that the ground at his feet was little more than mud. He moved stealthily, trying not to disturb the silence as if it were the sleeping Spanish below him. His second-in-command, Allard, moved along beside him and he shot the man a cursory glance. He was a musketeer known for his brutality, just as Aramis was.

He had no mercy in him anymore. It was as if someone had ripped it out along with his heart. He doubted his brothers would recognise the man that their deaths had made him. The worst part of it all was that he hadn't even been there. The regiment had been split a year ago and Aramis, being one of the few musketeers able to speak Spanish, had been chosen to lead a band of soldiers to infiltrate a Spanish camp, but none of that mattered to him. It meant that he hadn't been there.

Anger errupted within him and he used it, pouncing on the Spanish. He slashed and stabbed, taking solace in the sounds of metal sliding into flesh and the war cries of the Spanish soldiers. His sword cut into his opponents like into lard and he skewered the last man with deadly precision. He stood there, heaving, gazing at the carnage he had caused. Suddenly, the bodies around him disappeared. He didn't know what was happening. He turned to ask Allard, but Allard was lying at the base of a Spanish tent, his eyes staring at nothing.

He was alone.

"Aramis..."

Aramis' head whipped around at the sound. It was quiet, as a whisper, but rang loud and clear in his head. The blood froze in his veins. He tried to block out the voice calling his name, but the voice spoke louder. His heart thumped wildly in his chest, and for a minute he thought he was going to die. He closed his eyes, whispering frantically.

"You're not here. You're not here. Not here. Not here. Not here. Not him."

His heartbeat slowed. A phantom hand landed on his shoulder and he almost jumped out of his skin. He drew his sword and opened his eyes, but, of course, there was no one there.

"Aramis..."

This time, the voice sounded different. It sounded like it was pleading with him and Aramis couldn't help but step towards where he thought it was coming from. He hated hearing that tone on the voice that he knew so well.

He whispered fearfully, "Athos?"

"Aramis, please."

The broken tone of Athos' voice made him want to cry and scream. He hurried towards where he thought his brother's voice was coming from. It led him deeper into the fog and as he walked it enveloped him. Eventually the mist became so dense that he couldn't see the way in front of him.

A single gunshot sounded in the darkness and suddenly, pain was all he could feel. It blossomed across his chest, stealing his breath. His heart raced in time with his breathing and everything hurt. His legs refused to hold him and he fell, gasping. The ground rushed up to meet him and his head slammed into the ground. Stars danced in front of his eyes, but his hands curled into the grass. He knew he had to get up, to keep going, but he couldn't move, he couldn't think. Time passed as he lay gasping on the grass, enough time for a second voice to replace the first.

"Aramis!"

"Porthos." He breathed. His chest was getting heavier and heavier. It felt like his body was weighing him down. He didn't have the strength to clutch the grass anymore. It was all he could do just to keep breathing.

"Do you think he can hear us?"

He was confused; of course he could hear them. He tried to open his mouth to say something back, but all that escaped was an inhuman howl as pressure was put on a, no, on his wound. Tears leaked from beneath his eyelids and he desperately tried to hang on to the edges of his fraying consciousness. He knew the voices were shouting his name.

"Porthos." He sobbed.

"Aramis?" Porthos sounded shocked, "Come on, 'Mis, open your eyes."

He hadn't noticed that he'd closed them. He fought to open his eyes, but they were much heavier than he remembered. He tried again, pushing with everything he had, but they stayed shut. He noticed that he was beginning to feel more - the wind around them, the hands that were trying to hold his side together - and he knew he had to try now. Finally, his eyes opened to Porthos' blurry face above him.

"Athos! Stay with me, 'Mis." A gentle hand cupped the side of his face, forcing his eyes to look into Porthos'.

"Real?" He had to know.

Aramis' hoarse whisper confused Porthos, "Course I'm real."

It was Aramis' turn to look confused and he forced a word out, "Alone?"

"No, we're fighting the Spanish. You, me an' Athos. Don't you remember?"

He did remember. They hadn't been separated; they'd refused. They'd fought, together, and he hadn't seen the marksman on the hill. The shot had ripped his side apart. Porthos' hands tightened on his wound and a moan escaped Aramis' lips, "Hurts." He watched Porthos' face screw up in sympathy.

"I know 'Mis, I know. 'Thos will be back soon and we'll get you stitched up, okay?"

He shook his head a little, "Not 'nough... time." He coughed, setting his side on fire. Porthos held him, preventing him from curling up on his side.

"You're not gonna die, 'Mis."

He smiled weakly, "Better here than there."

He watched through his greying vision as Porthos' brow furrowed, "What-" He was interrupted by more coughing and held Aramis still. "No." He whispered, when he saw the specks of blood that coloured Aramis' lips. He ducked his head as tears began to run rivets down his cheeks.

Aramis smiled and breathed as deeply as he could. He mustered all the strength he had left and placed his hand on Porthos'. The larger musketeer looked up, into his eyes.

"All for one."

Porthos smiled sadly, and finished their motto with him, "And one for all."

In retrospect, he knew. There was nowhere he would rather be. He knew that Porthos would miss him, Athos too and perhaps even d'Artangnan would mourn him, but it was better this way than the other way round. They could continue without him, but he couldn't live without them. He let his eyes close, his friend's frantic pleas for him to stay awake fading away.


	2. City Lights

I have returned! I've survived A Levels and I will have more time to write now. So, I am starting with the next instalment of the Eurovision fics. This is inspired by the entry 'City Lights' from Belgium. I love this song and I hope you enjoy the fic. Enjoy!

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There were two things that d'Artagnan was aware of as he came to. One: He hurt. Two: It was damned wet in here, wherever here was. He pushed himself to his feet gingerly, moaning a little as his various injuries made themselves known. He startled a little, as he realised that one of his feet was bound to the ground.

The walls were high, too high for him to climb. He sighed, he was going to have to wait for the others to find him, again. Aramis and Porthos had taken it in turns to protest, jokingly, that he was getting caught too much recently. An issue that he was, currently, inclined to believe them on.

He shook his head, trying to organise his thoughts. It was clear that whoever had manacled him to the bottom of this pit did not want him getting out. The stone walls surrounded him on all sides and he could see the dim light of dusk peering in through the grate that covered the top of his prison; a well, then.

He tried to find a foothold on the walls, only to fall back down, having forgotten about the chain around his ankle. He rubbed at the sore skin beneath the manacle, gazing at the water that sloshed at his feet. He could have sworn that the water had not been this high. He stood in alarm, watching the water intently. There was no doubt.

The water was rising.

He began to panic, searching the wall for a rock; if he could not untie himself, he was going to die. He ran his hand along the walls quickly, almost shouting for joy when a piece of the rock came free. He knelt down, alarmed that the water had almost risen to knee height in such a short time. He felt for the chain underneath the water and struck it. Once, twice, but the chain wouldn't break. He had to stand, because the water was getting too high. He ran his hands through his hair, pulling at the strands. He shouted, trying to get the attention of any person who could possibly be out there and he searched the walls one more time. By the time he'd finished, the water had reached his shoulders.

He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift. Of all the deaths, this was not what he had imagined. He closed his eyes, picturing that he was standing on the field of battle. He imagined that he was surrounded by his brothers, as they charged at the Spanish. He could almost hear Athos calling out to him.

"D'Artagnan!"

"D'Artagnan!"

He opened his eyes. That shout hadn't come from his mind, it had come from above him. He looked up, startled to see Athos' silhouette against the waning moon.

"Athos!" He tried to shout, but water rushed into his mouth and he began to cough, "Athos!"

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis' face swam into his vision, "Try to keep your head above the water!"

"'Mis, I'm trying." He coughed as more water rushed into his mouth, "I can't-" He was broken off as the water surrounded him, cutting off his air. It rushed into his mouth as he struggled to breathe, filling his lungs. He tried to swim to the surface to get more air, but the chain around his ankle held him down. He writhed, trying desperately to pull at the chain, to get himself free, but all it did was rub at the sore skin around his ankle. Black spots started to appear in his vision and he tried one more time to reach the surface of the water, but by now it was far above him. He could feel the darkness closing in as it swept over his eyes and the pain began to fade away.

Suddenly, he felt strong arms surround him and pull him free of the water. He was so tired, he couldn't bring himself to look up to find out who was carrying him. He simply hung there limply, until he was pulled free of his prison and laid down on the grass. He could feel a fist on his back, and he gasped, the water flowing from his mouth as he lay there coughing and choking. He could feel his wet doublet being removed and blankets being flung over him as he coughed, but he found that he didn't have the energy to care anymore. So, he willingly surrendered to the waiting darkness and let his brothers take care of him.


End file.
